Taming the Beast Within
by StrkHwk
Summary: A tale of two souls, intertwined by chance. Their unfortunate setting: a global war. This is the story of how a common village girl bests a hotheaded fighter jock's inner demons. K for now, but up to T due to language in later chapters. You were warned.
1. Prologue: A World at War

_Disclaimer: Characters of Beauty and the Beast are property of Disney, but I own my original characters_

_Author's Note: OK, so, it seems that these retellings are getting a little old. I don't necessarily know if mine falls under the category of retelling, but, for the sake of arguments, I will say that I have come across an entirely unique approach if you – the reader – classifies this as a retelling. However, I would argue that this is NOT a retelling for the following two reasons: 1) the Beast I speak of is not said Beast from the movie, but rather the inner struggles of a hotheaded, young fighter jock that will meet our heroine in some later chapter, and 2) just because I said so, dadgummit!  _

_Kidding, I still love you all. Anyway, lemme know what you think in your reviews. Trudi, I hope you're reading this because I really appreciate your stories and you inspired me to write something "original" in my own way. I would love to hear from you. _

_Now, on with the story._

The Great World War had started far before she was even born. No one knew exactly who started it, or what particular issue it started over, but the spark that ignited the fire had been a tactical nuclear attack on a major city, causing the death of over 250,000 souls and destruction totaling over $32 billion. The entire world stood in shock as the news hit the mass media machine; nuclear war was about to begin. The widespread panic was ameliorated when each world power had personally guaranteed on the floor of the U.N. that no other weapon of such mass destruction would be loosed until the culprit had been found. The problem was, no one owned up to it. The entire Security Council had denied use of the weapons; none of the other world powers had claimed responsibility either. A secret ballot was held to determine if someone was lying or not; the ballot had still shown a one-sided denial. So if no one was going to claim responsibility, then who would get the blame?

Jumping to one conclusion after another, the powers accused each other, pointing blame and fingering allies, paranoia running rampant as the confusion surrounding the event became more and more obscure. The populace began to get restless, calling for action out of fear that sooner or later, another nation would take advantage of the confusion and start a world conquest. Political leaders stepped up to the occasion promising immediate military action. Soon, allied commitments were called on and honored, NATO countries coming into one big coalition force under a banner of world peace protection. The opposition consisted of a majority of the Communist countries, including North Korea and Cuba. Russia abstained, not wanting to get involved in the fighting, but rather the supplying of either side, increasing their exports of arms and weapons. Suspicions arose at the onset of the Russian's abstinence; it seemed that Russia had a motive to go with the crime. Allegations that Russia had initiated the attack to spark a world conflict they could sit back and profit from were presented, angering the Russian government. Despite the tense Cold War relations of the past, Russia offered the U.N. the chance to account for all of its nuclear weapons. Much to the world's chagrin, the U.N. Security Inspectors found each and every nuclear weapon in Russia's arsenal present and accounted for. If not the Ruskies, then who?

Each country's military mobilization grew to unprecedented heights, gearing towards the largest conflict in the history of humankind. Economic prosperity exploded as the arms factories began to produce as many weapons as it could. Human resources were at an all-time high, citizens of each respective country contributing what they could toward escalating the military prowess of their proud nations. Inventors became gods of technology, their imagination and creativity highly sought after to develop a new war technology that could give their nation the edge in what was sure to become the biggest threat to human survivability on the planet. Innovative ideas and creations were applied as soon as they were approved, and what innovations they were.

Most of it became geared toward lighter and more powerful small arms. Assault rifles capable of taking out an entire platoon of enemy troops; tanks that became nearly indestructible thanks to elastic armor that would absorb blasts; faster, higher, and more agile fighter aircraft; surgically-precise bombs; battlefield awareness systems attached to each troop. But the crowning achievement came in the form of AI. Computer technology that could learn a fighter pilot's flying style and upload it to a UAV armed with a deadly arsenal of missiles, rockets, and bombs enabled one pilot to be their own fighter/attack squadron commander. In this way, some of the world's naval and air forces grew to unprecedented numbers, human casualties dropping off sharply as the less costly units were sacrificed more often than their human-controlled counterparts. This saved the nations training losses and money more than fully human squadrons did.

It wasn't long after most of this new technology was put to the actual test. The first battle of the Great World War broke out over the skies of the Eastern Atlantic Seaboard on 25 January 2035. Around 2213 EST, a large aggressor wing of fighters flew in at near the speed of sound, a mere hundred feet over the calm waters. Radar operators didn't even notice them until the smoke from their missiles broke the radar coverage floor. By then, it was too late; several military installations were struck by surprise, including the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. Many promising future officers died in their sleep as the back two wings of Bancroft Hall were destroyed in a fiery blaze. Andrews Air Force Base near Washington, D.C. was hit worst of all; the entire contingent of aircraft was lost, as were the countless personnel standing alert status on the base. Langley Air Force Base was able to respond to the aggressors effectively, as were the test pilots and the new prototype platforms at Patuxent River Naval Air Base in Virginia. Several pilots made ace status in a matter of minutes, scoring five enemy kills or more by the time the battle was over.

LCDR Daniel Stone, USN, was the newest test pilot on the base when the fighting broke out. He single-handedly led the defensive air effort, getting his brand-new prototype FX-18Z Stinger Hornet into the air and holding off enemy attacks on the taxiing aircraft for at least ten minutes. It had been fortunate that the planes were being tested that evening for carrier landing stress testing, carrying a full weapons payload of air-to-air missiles and a full external fuel tank. LCDR Stone shot down a total of 15 enemy aircraft in the half-hour encounter, receiving accolades such as the Congressional Medal of Honor for saving countless lives of sailors and marines, and for his heroic and seemingly impossible survival, which brought about the destruction of the enemy. Stone was a reluctant hero, but a hero nonetheless.

It wasn't until the 18th Eve of the War – 24 January 2053 – that an ingenious American scientist developed an electronic jamming pod capable of disrupting the frequency of inert nuclear material to such a point that it would render any and all nuclear weapons within its target range useless. Unfortunately, the spy games had been reinstated as a result of the Greatest World War, and each country capable of copying the technology had done so. Now that everyone had the ability to neutralize each others' nuclear arsenal, there were no other alternative means to ending the conflict than by conventional means; guns, tanks, jet aircraft, troops, and entire navies that even had battleships being brought out of a mothballed state.

As a result of the growing military demands for equipment maintainence, the world governments had spent every last penny they had toward building up their defense forces and mobilizing equipment, manpower, and finding every scrap of metal they could to build new weapons of war to either replace those that had been destroyed, rolling out something totally new and revolutionary thanks to the innovations of the inventors.

After 19 solid years of conflict, the ground troop count started to suffer, despite the volunteers that continued to reinforce the losses. However, the time it took for training the new recruits had an adverse affect on the bolstering of the numbers of ground troops available. Thusly, conscripts were called up by every nation, meaning any able bodied person they could get their hands on was eventually pressed into service. The people had gotten the hint, fleeing the urban areas and settling in the more out of the way rural communities. Thusly, recruiting became more and more problematic as the recruiters had to go well out of their way to find people, often traveling for days before finding people willing enough, and often times shooting those who fled. These acts and more quite naturally caused civil unrest, but with people spread out over a large area, there was no way an effective uprising against the tyrannical military methods could be organized. In their efforts to avoid being brought into service, the people had backed themselves into a corner they couldn't easily escape from.

As the war raged on for over a hundred years, more and more people found their way toward the wide open spaces of the non-coastal regions. A combination of events took place that caused the peoples of each nation to slowly wean themselves from the conveniences they'd grown accustomed to and start reverting back to the way things used to be in the 18th century. First, the insatiable needs of the military took precedence over the common population, meaning that the modern-day conveniences such as electricity, refrigeration, vehicular transport, and mass media were for the most part cut off from the general populace. There was nothing that could define the middle 22nd century as a modern time. All the amenities that went with modern life were afforded only to the military.

Secondly, the more the war raged on, the more conservative politicians became, spouting hellfire and brimstone from the 'Bully Pulpit' of their respective countries. Hence, the faster these modern-day amenities disappeared from daily life and control over what the citizens could or could not do became more and more strict with each passing administration, until a neo-feudal society became the prevailing structure of society. By the time she was born, she knew nothing about what electricity could do, but she knew _of _it, and she also knew what the dress code entailed. The low-cut, alluring fashions at the beginning of the new millennium were a thing of the past, mere historical reference now. The fashion of the present day reflected that of the middle 1700s, but without the restricting vise of a corset for the ladies. Simple, hand-made cotton garments replaced those made of polyester and easy-care fabric. It truly had brought the world back a couple of centuries. Not that she noticed, however.

As far as she was concerned, the conditions she had been living in suited her just fine; her small cottage near the outskirts of a quaint French village, living with her father, an inventor of marvelous machines. One could have told her that it was 1762 or 2162, and she would never have known the difference. What was time to one such as her? A beautiful girl with luscious brown hair that fell past her shoulders, glowing green-brown eyes that spoke of a longing for fantastic adventures, and a mind as sharp as a whip, she was as beautiful as any girl could hope to be. Funny thing about her is that she didn't think she was all that attractive. This was due to the attitude of the villagers, who considered her odd. This wasn't her fault, necessarily, but more of a coincidence really.

She and her father had moved to the village from Paris only three years earlier. She was only 17 at the time, and despite the many times her father had explained to her _why_ they had moved from her friends and home, she still didn't understand what he meant when he said, "We're moving away from the development, Belle." _Development? Development of what, the city?_ she often though. It depressed her that she had to leave the people that understood her best. Now, the people here didn't appreciate the fact that she had an affinity for magic. She loved to perform tricks for the entertainment of others, and even played the Irish pipes that her mother had bequeathed her. It was sad, sad that this particular village hadn't discovered the joy of magic tricks.

When they first arrived, the children of the village were curious to see the new people that came to the village. They were so eager to see if they had a new playmate, but their spirits were slightly crushed when they saw the older girl and her father. She smiled at them and beckoned them over.

"You want to see some magic?"

"Magic?" asked one with a sandy blonde mop on his head.

"What's that?" asked a little girl with curls.

"I'll show you," Belle said with a twinkle in her eye, producing a set of cards out of thin air. She spread them out in beautiful fan-like arrangement.

"Pick one," she urged with a hint of glee. "And once you know what it is, put back and I'll shuffle the deck. Then, I'll pick your card out."

The blonde boy picked out a card, showing all his friends as they craned their necks over his shoulders, standing on their tip-toes. He placed the card facedown back into the fan. Belle shuffled the deck with speed, randomizing the cards in front of the childrens' very eyes. What she failed to notice in her happily focused state of mind was the slight look of fear in the eyes of the little ones. They watched her smiling, a little _too_ much. They had been told about crazy ladies with powers to do unspeakable evil; was this young woman one of those bad ladies? She had finished shuffling now and told them to watch carefully at the card she was about to hold up. Their minds reeled in a dangerous mix of curiosity and apprehension. Leaning in closely, they prayed silently that she wouldn't pick the right card. If she did, that meant she was a bad lady.

She held up the seven of hearts, "Is this your card?"

They looked at her, at the card, then her, and then the card. Their little faces contorted into masks of horror and fright, as if in slow motion. The process running through her brain at the moment consisted of trying to calm the children down or run like Hell. Before she could do either, the kids screamed bloody murder and bolted for their homes as if their bottoms were on fire. Belle reached out a hand as if to somehow draw them back and apologize.

_Great, I'm here two minutes and already I scare the kids._

She found out later that this particular village had been plagued by "unholy and unnatural acts" a few years back pertaining to what basically amounted to witchcraft. Any display of magic/sorcery/incantations etc. were frowned upon and often feared. So because she tried to be the nice person that she was and show a neat parlor trick to her new neighbors, she became ostracized and rejected. Everywhere she went in town, people looked at her with disdain and mistrust. While walking to the grocer's to pick up food, she would often be urged to hurry by the store owner the moment she walked in. At first, she didn't listen. Then the store owner started walking ten feet behind her in the store. His stance and attitude became more claustrophobic than ever after the first five minutes. She didn't understand why she had to move any quicker than she should be allowed. He loudly announced his presence as she picked up and inspected an apple.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Get your food and get out, _now!_"

"Why are you being so rude?"

"Because I'm losing money while you shop, witch!" Indeed, the majority of the village's female population was outside, hesitant to enter the shop with her in it. She scowled at the store owner and made her selections quickly. She slammed the money down on the counter and furiously strode out of the store past the ogling and cringing women-folk.

She would do everything in her power to appear and act as non-threatening as possible, but her Parisian fashions were just slightly more revealing than the conservative village standard. Hence, not only did she have the whole witch thing to deal with, but she was also ushered out of whatever shop she was in so that the married store owners wouldn't get caught by their wives looking at the shapely young girl.

It struck her as crazy, but she figured there was no changing them. The only one who _didn't_ pay her any attention was a rather dashing, yet troublesome young man by the name of Gaston. She often saw him around, flashing his smile and flexing his muscles to all the village girls. Whenever she would approach to see what the big deal was with this guy, Gaston would notice her at once, push his way past the villagers admiring him and move away as fast as he dared. The crowd followed, leaving Belle alone. That hurt her more than anything...being left by an entire crowd because of one person. Dejected, she would often turn around and head home, the one place where she had some semblance of sanity about her.

She would soon forget the entire village as she sat by the tree on the cliff overlooking the river by her cottage. Then she would practice her illusions by the fading daylight, trying some new ones on for size, and maybe play a few pieces of Irish music on her pipes. If she couldn't figure out the piece, she would often make her own up and play until it was too dark to see. She watched the sunset morosely one day, thinking...

_If only something interesting would happen to add some excitement to my life_...


	2. Awaken the Night

Night had fallen, and the deafening roar of the fighters' engines tore the silence apart like a thunderclap. The sound awoke her with a start from a haunting nightmare, her body had broken out into a cold sweat. She kicked off the sheets and walked to the window, almost in a daze. Throwing open the sash, she leaned on the windowsill and looked into the sky. Explosions lit up the sky intermittently, allowing her to see the battle unfold before her very eyes.

The aircraft danced dizzying patterns of circles and spirals, turning and twisting like angry birds of prey, they loosed volley after volley of machine gun fire and rained missiles on one another, hoping for that kill. When one met its mark, the explosion dazzled the dark canopy, barking an immediate, earth-shaking rumble. Every so often, the target aircraft would spin out of control and impact the earth below, creating a plume of fire and subsequent thunderous explosion. She secretly hoped that one more pilot would meet their Maker, that way one side or the other would give up and leave. Just then, she saw a dark fighter let loose two missiles, the rockets crossing in midair just in front of the deadly valkyrie and destroying two enemy fighters at once. The enemy planes, awash in the blinding light of their destroyed comrade, carried a white base coat with a blood red symbol on their tail. They executed a 180-degree turn and lit their afterburners, as she had learned they were called. Finally, the defending force quieted their fierce machines and headed to the base. The sky over their quaint village had been a war zone for so long, it almost seemed common place. But she remembered when they first appeared.

The first one appeared two months ago, coming in at near rooftop level, flathatting like a true daredevil would. Belle was washing the week's laundry in the town square fountain when she heard a shrill whine accompanied by a faint rushing sound from over head. As she looked up curiously, she saw a dark shape far off in the distance, but getting closer and louder by the second. It passed over at breakneck speed, banking sharply up to the right, the roar of thunder following behind it. This scared the villagers at first, but Belle stood rooted at the spot, transfixed. She knew that the fighter's presence meant that the conflict was finally coming to her quiet part of the world. She knew that it would reach Molyneaux eventually, as it had reached all over the world.

Although the black fighter was a surprising sight to the majority of the village, Maurice had told Belle that it would be coming soon enough. The signs were there, he kept saying. Belle had noticed the convoys of military trucks bringing supplies by months before. They had been off in the distance, cutting through the hills on the far side of the river, behind her cottage. She had seen them rumbling through as she read books on the cliff overlooking the river. She had thought it strange, but didn't think that it would mean a base was going to appear anywhere near Molyneaux.

But then the night sky lit up on the horizon, southwest of the village. The hills hid the base from their view, but it made it seem like a miniature sun was on the rise over the hills. Some of the elder villagers seemed worried about the new base being built in such close proximity to the village. They feared that the soldiers, marines, and aviators would start making frequent trips to the village to enjoy themselves, wrecking the town in the process and ruining the quaint, quiet life they had. Even worse, it would mean that some of the able-bodied young men and women would be sought after and pressed into service if they were needed. More often than not, they were needed. Belle became alarmed at the prospect of becoming another pawn in the deadliest chess game the world had ever seen.

Belle gathered her things quickly and started off toward her home at a run. She arrived and called out for her father, worried that he wasn't home. _Papa's an inventor; what if they took him? _she thought. Frantic, she nearly tore the basement shutters off their hinges as she shouted again for her father.

"Papa! Papa!" she called. "Papa, where _are _you!"

"Belle?" her father called back from behind his workbench. "What's wrong, my dear?"

She rushed to him, wanting nothing more than to be embraced by her father, reverting to the childhood instincts, telling herself that she would be safe in her father's arms, that no harm could befall her. She held her head tight to his chest, taking in the comforting aroma that surrounded her father, smelling wooden dust, sweat, and the dull scent of age in his cotton tunic. Maurice smiled warmly, stroking his daughter's hair; God, she looked extraordinarily like her mother right now. She lifted her head to look into his eyes.

"Tell me it's going to be OK, Papa," she seemed to plead. "Tell me, and I'll believe you."

"There's nothing to fear, my daughter," he said firmly. "These men won't come near our village; they have nothing of interest here."

"But what if they come for me? I'm able-bodied and youthful," her eyes threatened tears.

"You're safe with me _ma petite_," he soothed.

Maurice had been a smart man, full of imagination and wit. He knew the risks of raising a family in these turbulent times, but he accepted them happily, watching his daughter run and play carefree and happily, watching her grow into a beautiful young woman. He knew with all his heart that he would protect her; he would do so the best he could against any and all threats to her happiness and freedom. In this case, he knew the laws surrounding who could and could not be selected for military duty.

_Winter is coming,_ he thought. _Perhaps it'll be a bad enough winter for an old man to catch a little cold._

With the presence of the nearby base came the inevitable drawbacks in supplies for the people of Molyneaux. Food was rationed to bare minimums for each person to get through each month fairly well. In some cases, resources were pooled to provide jobs for those skilled in areas others weren't. Example being the baker, who would provide quality goods out of the meager supplies each villager was given. Since he could skillfully make a moderate loaf out of one set of rations, he offered his service for a nominal fee. This made it easier on everyone; instead of wasting the precious little they were given, people would let someone else do the dirty work (yet with skill) for a small fee. This way, money was always circulating within the village and kept people from falling into poverty. It was an impressive micro economy the villagers created, and was the model across the village. Maurice even sold several of his woodcutting machines – despite the stigma his family carried – and other inventions that would ease the hard labor people endured. By the time winter's frosty air approached, Maurice's woodcutter was a hot item, and for the price he was asking, who wouldn't be enticed by a machine that would cut wood for you?

Then winter came, and it was brutal. Temperatures dropped below freezing most of the time, snowdrifts piling up around houses and establishments to the point where it became impractical to leave one's house. Supplies continued to be brought in for the villagers, but this time with military aid. Some of the elder villagers saw through the ruse, claiming that the brass were only here to scope out the potential conscripts and draftees that lived within the village as they came to take their supplies. Belle and Maurice took their time taking their rations, not wanting to attract any attention as a full-bird colonel was talking to a strapping young lad by the name of Jean-Luc. Despite the increased rations for the inexplicably cold weather, Belle and Maurice barely had enough to keep themselves warm or fed. It wasn't that they couldn't afford it (Maurice's invention had seen to that) but they simply weren't rationed enough to made as comfortable as they could have been. However, Maurice _insisted_ that Belle be made comfortable. He would often give up his food for his daughter if she were particularly hungry, slowly losing weight and girth. He often refused his blanket if he saw her shivering in the one she used, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"I'm old, I've lived my life, Belle," he would say over and over.

"Papa, you'll freeze," she protested through chattering teeth.

"I'll manage," he said, weakly but with a soft smile.

He started looking less himself and more skeletal. His jovial disposition never faded as his body did, but he didn't seem quite the same. His clothes hung limply from his now bony shoulders, as if a child had worn its father's clothes. He had almost made it through, but in the end, he caught pneumonia within weeks of spring. She had taken it hard, the one true person who actually cared for her, and loved her more than life itself and he was on the verge of knocking on Death's door. She vowed to bring him back to full health, and would not rest until she did so. She made him as comfortable as possible, despite his weak dismissals. She didn't understand why he had been so foolish, why he had chosen to die. Did he want to leave her all alone? What was it that possessed him to face Death during such a brutal winter?

Belle had come to feed Maurice his breakfast, but she seemed distant, almost as if she was contemplating something. She was somewhat absent-minded, and he had gentle reminders to indicate to her that she was either missing his mouth, or spilling the contents on the utensil on his chest. After he finished, she started to clean up, but dropped the tray on the floor. He wished to address it.

Maurice asked her, "What is it, Belle?"

She said, "How could you?"

"Do what?"

"Oh, Papa! You're sick as I've ever seen you, you almost _died_! How could you be so foolish? How could you sacrifice yourself to this extent just to keep me warm? Do you not love me, do you want to die and leave me here alone?"

Maurice smiled, "No, that's not it at all."

"Then what?"

"I did it because I didn't want to see you get taken away from me. I knew that if I told you why I was doing it, you would protest and join up just so you could stop me from doing it. I didn't want you to worry about me, and stop me from doing this. That's why I didn't say anything."

"I don't understand."

"We have two members of our family. I am ill, and cannot take care of myself, so you must be here to do that. They can't take you to the service if you are caring for a sick member of the family."

Belle didn't know how to react. She was touched, but at the same time, she was infuriated that her father took a lethal risk to keep her out of the military. She stood up, taking the tray to leave the room.

"Get some sleep, Papa," she said.

She closed the door, walking briskly down the stairs to clean up the kitchen and tray. She scrubbed harder then usual, furious that her father would do something so _stupid_ to keep her out of the military's reach. She gave up cleaning, instead walking toward the front door to grab her cloak and walk into town.

As she walked through the town, the people began to cast glances in her direction. The fact that she seemed to be worse off than before was something of a concern. It seemed as if the spirit and fire had been sapped out of her. She didn't play with her illusions anymore; she spent most of her time finding things to do, not only to keep her mind busy, but to provide enough money for mere survival of her family. However, Gaston seemed to be following her around a lot, a permanent scowl on his face. He blocked her path one day as she wandered aimlessly. She looked up into his ice blue eyes.

"Well hello, Witch."

"Just leave me be, Gaston," she said as she sidestepped around him.

"Just where do you think you're going?" Gaston pressed, reaching out to catch her arm.

"Gaston, I'm not in the mood to deal with you," she replied, a hint of ferocity edging her tone.

He leaned in closer as he said, "You'd better get used to it. I may just want a private chat with you one of these days, to make sure you aren't cursing the village."

Furious, she rounded on him and planted a tiny fist on his cleft chin, knocking him clear off his feet and onto the thawing ground, "How _dare_ you!"

She stormed off, fists as tight as wound up watch springs. Gaston was shocked at her reaction, clearly not expecting such rage from such a small girl. She really _was _different these days. He wrote it off as that time of the month for her, and decided to leave her be for the time being. His chin and lower jaw throbbed painfully; uppercuts truly are the most powerful punch, and she connected beautifully. He rolled his jaw a couple times to rid himself of the pain, and looked around to make sure no one saw that. He could only imagine the gossip that would spark from that; after all, he had a reputation to uphold.

At the tavern, he bragged about how he would best that witch one day, shoving a wooden stake through her heart would do it. The village men laughed when Gaston did, thinking nothing funny of putting a wooden stake through anyone's heart, despite the accusations.

_He just _doesn't_ take the hint!_ she thought angrily.

Belle conceded defeat, there was just no getting through that thick ego. But it just sounded worse coming from Gaston, because that meant the entire town would agree with him. The town hero, the center of attention and admiration. As if he needed any other reason to inflate his already enlarged ego.

So the days passed thusly as Belle cared for her father, doing the best she could to keep him comfortable. She still couldn't believe he had done this to prevent her from becoming another anonymous conscript. One more cog in the wheel that ran the leviathan war effort. Why couldn't they take Gaston? He was plenty strong and capable for a military outfit. Of course, she knew the answer to that one. Knowing Gaston, he would offer to stay behind to defend the town from invaders, seeing as how he was the_ best_. And of course, the town council would vouch for him, laying down their law to the military that there had to be some defense force left behind to take care of the town.

Besides, it was such a small village that the military probably wouldn't even bother. And Gaston was not known for his selflessness anyway. Sure, he made seemingly generous offers to the villagers every once in a while, but each one was a front. He either came across too much of something and "gave it away" or would water down the kegs in the tavern after a night of drinks on the house. It was all about image with Gaston.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two men stood over a table in a dark room with a single halo light lit above the table. Both wore differing shades of the same Battle Dress Utility uniforms. The two men were three-star ranks in the Navy and Marine Corps. They murmured quietly over the mounds of data that had been collected by a Marine Sergeant Matthew Davis, USMC. Davis spent the past several months incognito within the village, scouting out possible new additions to the ranks of sailors and marines already present on the base. His data consisted of photographs, written reports and scribbled journal entries that detailed the most promising prospects. Currently, they were sifting through the background information.

"What do they call it?"

"Molyneaux, a small hunter's village mostly but it has its charm."

"Do they have anyone that can be an asset?"

"You mean is there anyone worth pressing?"

"Of course, what else did you think I meant?"

The general scratched his bald pate as he ran through the numerous photographs his Marines had taken of the villagers during the winter's supply off-loading. There wasn't much, but they could make due with what they found. There was an impressively built man by the name of Gaston that seemed _very_ intriguing to their purposes. The general – Lt. Gen. Thomas Langdon Gates, USMC – had spoken with the gentleman on the occasion in which these photos were taken.

"You sir," Gates called out to Gaston.

"You address me, General?" Gaston said with panache.

"What's your name?"

Gaston chuckled haughtily, "Why, you mean to tell me you've _never _heard of _me?_"

Gates smiled as Gaston introduced himself, "I am Gaston Avenant, the _greatest_ hunter you'll find in these parts!"

"You think a man like you could put his fine skills to work in a military profession?"

Gaston laughed, "There _is_ no man like me!"

Gates was getting more intrigued by the second, "How would _you_ like to be paid to be a hunter of _men_?"

Gaston pondered the offer for some time before he answered, "No. What would this poor, defenseless village do without me in a time of need? Why, without _me_ to fend off the dangerous creatures of the forest, they would be too afraid to come out of their homes."

Gates looked put-off, but it was only a ruse, "Are you sure? We could take your already proficient rifle expertise and make it..." he paused dramatically, "..._perfect!_"

Gaston scowled at that, "I already _am_ a perfect shot! You should have seen the kill I brought in today; sixteen points on the rack, from nearly one-hundred yards out!"

Gates went in for the kill, "Could you hit a target from a _thousand_ yards? We can teach you, and you'd be the best shot in the _world!_ Then everyone will know the name of Gaston Avenant."

Gaston's eyes lit up; _world recognition!_ Now that was something worth considering. Gaston promised Gates he would mull it over during the winter. Gates shook hands with the man and boarded the now empty supply truck heading back to base.

"Admiral, I figure if we can get this one and a few more of the men from this village, we'll have the paramilitary squad we need for these parts. As it stands, there's not a lot of potential with the other villagers...save one."

The photo of Maurice with his woodcutting machine was picked up, eyebrows rising at once. The admiral – Vice Admiral Dennis "Nutso" Shorte, USN – scanned the photo with interest.

"Who is he?"

"LeRoeux, Maurice," Gates read off from a full intelligence fill. "Age fifty-seven. Grew up near the outskirts of Paris, was the fifth child in a rather large family. Started innovating at the age of twelve, came up with a new suspension system for the family horse cart out of old shock absorbers. First successful invention was a simple pneumatic pressure water faucet."

"What did he make that out of?" Shorte wondered incredulously.

"A couple of fire bellows as a foot pedal and a water reservoir."

Shorte pursed his lips in amazement, "Genius."

An inventor would be just the thing they needed, but how much did he know about electronics? Could he be trained? Could they afford to train him, and if so, how much time would it take? Could they get the man started on important innovations sooner rather than later? These thoughts ran through the admiral's head, ruminating on one after the other.

Finally, he looked at Gates, "How do we get him?"

"Through her."

He picked up a picture of Belle, as she was stooping to pick up the supplies. He knew what Gates was thinking; use her to get to the old man. It could almost work, but it wasn't how this outfit was used to operating. At least, not the admiral's side of things. He couldn't be sure how Gates would handle it, though. Gates was not an easy man to figure out.

Gates was about Marine as one could get. In the Navy, they would have referred to him as a mustang – a man who started his career as an enlisted private and worked his way up to the officer ranks. Standing a medium height of 5' 8" with a stocky frame, Gates could command respect by simply entering the room. His hard features were a product of decades of sleepless nights, multi-hour firefights, and loss of several comrades in the face of battle. His blue eyes shone with intensity that sent a small shiver down the spines of even the most stoic of men. His crisp gait and smart salutes were a testament to his dedication to upholding the highest sense of the Corps values and military presentation.

Garnering his already impressive career were several tours in each of the regions: Middle East, Northern and Eastern Europe, Grenada, Gitmo (Guantanamo Bay, Cuba Naval Base), Asia, North Africa, and finally here in Western Europe. He was quick to ascend the enlisted ranks and became a platoon sergeant with the rank of Gunnery Sergeant at age 27. He led the offensive on a fortified enemy position in such a courageous and effective manner that not one Marine in his platoon lost their lives. The enemy was shocked at the ability of the offending force and gave up the fight after more than 75 of their side took fatal casualties. It was because of his actions that day that Gates was given an immediate battlefield commission, ascending to the officer ranks.

As a platoon leader with the previous experience of a platoon sergeant, he had shown time and again how effective he was at managing the battle against the enemy with speed, accuracy, and precision. He seemed to have this sixth sense that would allow him to predict what the enemy would do in a given situation. He always assumed the role of the enemy, thinking what _he_ would do to an opposing force arranged as he was. The upper echelons of the Marine Corps recognized this talented officer for what he was, and put him through Force Recon school. He made it through the intense training, to be put in charge of the elite 1st Reconnaissance Battalion/1st Platoon. With his time in Recon, Gates went from platoon leader to battalion commander in a matter of five years. He was tapped for colonel five years later after returning from an exhausting and arduous campaign in the Indonesian Islands while fighting off factions of al Qaeda copycats. He'd spent the remainder of his time heading up campaigns all over the globe, directing Marine forces in every conceivable fashion. Gates was soon reassigned to head up forces specifically in Europe, particularly in the Force Recon sector. He was charged with finding a battle-altering edge in the Western European region while being supplemented by an elite Navy Fighter/Attack Squadron.

That's where Shorte came in. Shorte had spent an exciting career in the naval aviation field after graduating from the Naval Academy. As a midshipman, Shorte was about as bad as it got when it came to pulling pranks, but upon graduation, he became so moved during the commissioning ceremony that he straightened up his act upon getting to Pensacola. He flew tightly and smartly, quickly becoming the top ranking student pilot. Initially, he had chosen to fly the Navy's newest maritime patrol aircraft, the P-7 Scorpio – a throwback to the old P-3 Orion – but his proficiency and skill in fighter tactics and formation flight was his own undoing. He was "voluntold" to go fighters. Fortunately for him, however, his charm and personality made him very easy to get along with and he soon found himself forming a tight-knit group within the fighter squadron he'd been assigned in San Diego, California.

Shorte's call sign is a testament to his tall, trim frame. Standing 6' 4" even in old age, Shorte was no stranger to heights. His soft green eyes laughed with mirth underneath his thick, dark hair, especially when Shorte smiled his sheepish grin. Shorte seemed more the respected but well-liked older sibling than the officer he really was, but that didn't bother his humble soul one bit. He seemed to light a room on fire just by entering it, quickly becoming the life of the party, regaling anyone who would listen with tales of his days at sea. These salty anecdotes mostly involved misfortunate and humorous circumstances aboard the large, flat-deck vessels he sailed on. One such story involved a helmsman who lost his last meal all over the conning officer's back while rolling violently on typhoon-tossed seas. Shorte was a crowd pleaser, but a good man and a model officer.

He had served in many fighter squadrons, first as another wingman and working his way up the ladder to become a squadron XO (executive officer) – the most loathsome yet crucial position on the way to becoming a CO. Shorte had been such a success at each squadron, that he received stunning accolades and stellar recommendations on his way to becoming a squadron CO at age 36. Young as he may have been at the time, he was very acutely aware of the responsibilities associated with being a CO. He had such a grand time commanding his very own squadron, that in less than five years, he ascended to CAG – Commander of the Air Wing aboard a carrier.

The crowning achievement of his career was the proposal to create and maintain a strictly human fighter squadron. This squadron would be an elite group of young aviators, such that they could defeat any foe, anytime, anywhere, period. This, he argued, was a necessity in the conflict because the human element was a _crucial_ factor in the waging of war on the enemy. Besides – he would often counter with this point – what better way to scare the enemy air effort than to have a bunch of meat bags kill each and every UAV without taking a single casualty? The admirals in charge of aviation granted Shorte total control over recruiting, training, platform development and redesign, and choice of Carrier Strike Groups. Shorte didn't need to be told twice. On 13 October 2150, the VFX-256 Black Demons took the skies in the black-painted FX-18Z Stinger Hornets and F-45C Talons.

Shorte returned the photo to Gates, "I think you better move with caution on this one, General. If we don't play this right, we'll have a handful of very angry people on our hands." He picked up the photo of Gaston again. "And if this one's as cocky as you say, then he may be able to coordinate a mob out of these farmers and peasants."

"Trust me, Admiral," Gates smiled. "That one won't be much of a threat. He's charismatic, but he's not bright. Those idiot peasants may side with him and become a mob, but there's no _way_ my Marines would let him get the upperhand in a potentially threatening situation."

"What about the girl? Once we have her father, what do we do with her?" Shorte asked. "Do we just throw her back once she's served her purpose as bait? I think we need to recon this guy a little more closely, at least for another month."

"Gut reactions?" Gates looked up.

"Call it a sixth sense," Shorte sighed heavily with fatigue. "It's almost as if I can feel the guy's pain after we toss out his daughter. That'll hurt his effectiveness for sure, making him utterly useless."

Gates smirked confidently, "I'll work on that after the month is out." He gathered up his files and left the room with Shorte. "It'll be a piece of cake, after all."

Gates marched off toward his office as they entered the whitewashed corridors of the admin building on the base. Shorte headed off toward his own office to ascertain the status of the training evolution his Demons were going through. As if on cue, Gates turned and called out to Shorte.

"Oh, and Admiral?"

"Yes?"

"See if you can't keep a leash on that rogue pilot of yours," Gates said with an air of finality. "His performance as of late has been atrocious. If you can't find some way to handle him, I'll gladly take care of him for you."

"Which one?" Shorte grinned, but inside he knew the answer.

"That hothead J-G, Stone. If he doesn't start acting like a professional military officer, I'll see to it that he gets what's appropriate," Gates threatened.

"You just take care of your Marines, General," Shorte replied. "I'll handle Stone."

Gates didn't look mollified by that, but he didn't press it any further. Instead, he stalked off with a scowl on his face as Shorte breathed a sigh of defeat. So, the situation had finally gotten on Gates' last nerve. He couldn't admit that he didn't see this coming, however.

But still, he had to admit he still didn't understand _why_ things had gotten out of hand with Stone. Six months ago, he was about as sharp as Shorte had been coming out of flight school; Stone was a star pilot, an up-and-coming prodigy. He had been an enthusiastic and jovial young man with the world on a platter.

But things changed suddenly those six long months ago, as if the light switch had been turned off in his eyes replacing his warm emerald green glance with a hard and angry glare. On more than five occasions, Stone had beaten the living daylights out of anyone who set him off, sending two Marines to the infirmary and three fellow pilots to the hospital. Stone had almost ended five careers with his fits of rage. He hadn't been recommended to see the Admiral yet (the squadron CO wished to handle it within ranks), but he knew it was only a matter of time. Shorte heaved a sigh as he walked back to his office overlooking the runways on the base as the Demons came back...early.

_Oh God, what happened now?_


	3. A Demonic Soul

_Author's Notes: OK, so, this is the intro chapter for the Demons. I'm really looking for feedback on a few things: is this story too "Tom Clancy" and when I say Tom Clancy, I mean there's more than a few side stories within the story itself that kind of confuse you about what's going on, technical descriptions being too long, etc. Let me know; if you don't like the story and don't tell me, then I can't change it for you. I want to be able to share this with you guys, but if I lose people because they don't like the style, then I'm losing an audience. I won't get mad, I promise. Just don't cuss me out; I get that enough around the Academy._

_Speaking of that, yes, I shamelessly put the Academy in here. Now, given that this fic centers around a war-torn world that is short of people to fight it, I made the happenings of the Academy a little more brutish than normal. I figure that in the future, it'll be tougher because of the demands of officers in the war. That being said, please don't think I'm trying to blow the Plebe Summer program out of proportion. I may still be bitter about it, but the cadre didn't belittle us like I will show here._

_Also, I wanted to thank TrudiRose for her patience and time for looking over my twisted version of a FanFic and giving me pointers to improve it. I truly consider her the "authority" of Beauty and the Beast fics because of her style and the way she defines the characters. I'm truly amazed at her penmanship and stories. Trudi, a heartfelt thank you from me to you. _

_Lights, tires, and fires!_

Shimmering waves of heat flowed across the tarmac, the black surface seeming to radiate energy. Across the base airfield, there seemed to be the prey of an invisible predator, hidden in the dancing waves. Then out of the sun, five black painted fighters appeared, their landing gear lowered like the waiting talons of the mighty eagles and falcons that patrol the forest skies. The high-pitched whine of turbines sucking in air soon broke the otherwise silent atmosphere surrounding the unusually calm airfield. The lead bird came in slowly toward the rising black surface, its wings looked heavy with the flaps hanging 50 degrees in the air stream. It seemed to float fitfully over the runway for a brief period of a few seconds, and then kissed the grooved surface with a squawk of protest from the rubber wrapping its wheels.

The Black Demons had all returned early from a rather disastrous training flight over the deserted forest north of their base. As the flight lead, CDR Tripp "Trip Wire" Delson had been responsible for the actions of one or all of the Demons, and he was sure that his head would once again be on the chopping block...more so with Gen. Gates than with Adm. Shorte. Most _especially_ because of LT(j.g.) Stone. _That damn kid is going to cost me my career_, he thought as he taxied his fighter off the runway. He watched as the rest of the Demons landed, heading toward high-speed turnoff Golf in succession. Delson hung his helmeted head as Stone's plane landed...the last plane to land. Stone was in a heap of trouble as it was, and because of the training mission, he had just made things worse.

"Hey Trip Wire!" LT Brad "British Bulldog" England called on the frequency.

"What do you want, British?" Delson responded.

"Maybe if we spent less time babysitting Dragon-boy over there, we would actually get some freakin' work done out here," England taunted over the net. "As it stands, we're moving backwards in our training schedule. At this pace, we'll get cremated before we leave our racks!"

"Maybe if you spent less time flapping your jaw and more time shooting your ordinance you'd be a better pilot, Bulldog," LT Christina "Jenga" Towers. "Start focusing on your tactics before you start criticizing someone else, roger that?"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, Tripp," England stated. "These guys spend more time defending that kid than they should and it's affecting our performance. He's a damn disgrace to the Demons! I'm surprised they keep letting him fly with us."

"He was here _long_ before you, jackass! Besides, he was one of the best around for miles six months ago," LT Brian "Meatball" Mannelli – Stone's roommate – countered truthfully.

"_Be that as it may,_" England said with an edge of fury, "he needs to straighten up and fly right or else I'll make it my personal business to see to it that he does. Where's the squad integrity here? They never would have accepted this lackluster bullshit in the Golden Kestrels!"

"You watch your mouth, lieutenant! I'll not have anyone bad mouthing this squadron, I don't _care_ how bad it may seem. And I especially don't give a piss _how_ any other squadron did their business," Delson barked like an angry dog. "This is how we do things in the Black Demons; we take care of each other and look out for one another. If that doesn't suit you, get the Hell out of _our_ squadron!"

No one said another word the rest of the way back to the Demons' ramp. But the silence on the net drove them all nuts, most especially since Stone didn't respond to any of England's taunts. Usually, he would be quick on the draw to snap back with something bitter, angry, ferocious, or – in the rare case that he was having a good day (which, by the way, was once in a blue moon) – he would come back with something sarcastic and witty. But no retort was heard from the recently demoted pilot. No sharp reply; no angry comeback; no fiery threats; nothing. Was Stone actually getting the message and trying to turn the other cheek?

The five varying planes turned in unison into their usual parking spots, the black birds coming to a rest on the yellow markers that signified where each wheel should have come to rest on. One by one, the fighters all shut down their whining turbines and opened their canopies, the latter yawning like the tired maws on large beasts. Each pilot flew a different fighter, each suited to a different specialty, but all sharing a common thread in the vein of being excellent air-to-air fighters.

CDR Delson hopped out of an antique but technologically updated F-14D Super Tomcat. The large fighter retired by the Navy in September of 2006 had the improvements to provide it with more than sufficient performance characteristics to render it a threat to almost any fighter in the world.

Delson descended the side of the large fighter, jumping the last few feet to the deck. He walked exhaustedly toward the Demons' hangar, ready to quickly debrief the youngsters and send them off to get showered. More than likely, he would want to pull England and Stone aside and privately talk to them both. England had a bad habit of breaking the Demons' formations and throwing everyone off. Delson didn't want to call out England like the younger officer had done to Stone over the net, but he would get a talking to. As he walked, he turned back to look at the remainder of his squad: LT Brad England, LT Christina Breanne Towers, LT Brian Mannelli, and LT(j.g.) Riley Stone. _Stone_, he thought. _What happened to you, son?_

_-Six months earlier­-_

The common room sat down the corridor from the ready room and locker room. It was littered with various amusements to help the pilots unwind on their free time: they could watch movies, play videogames, shoot billiards, ping-pong, air hockey, darts, anything to take their mind off the stress of combat. A card table sat underneath a dirty yellow incandescent light with three people wearing black flight suits. The Demons sat around the common room, joking about days in the Fleet or flight training. LT Christina Towers, a stunning girl with curly reddish-blonde hair was laughing shrilly at something CDR Tripp Delson, an older man with sandy blonde hair, had said. Stone had been a lieutenant then, and he was currently playing ping-pong with Mannelli.

The spirited wooden slap and plastic _pick, pock_ blended with the brutal metal music playing softly from the stereo in the corner. The conversation was shortened intermittently by loud laughter as Delson had finished telling a sea story from his days aboard the USS Valkyrie (CVN-100). Delson himself was chuckling at the memory, wiping a tear away from his eye. Just then, the newest addition to the squad entered the room.

"Hey everyone," LT(j.g.) Brad England announced, waving.

"J-G England! You're just in time for some sea stories of lore," Delson smiled. "I had just finished telling Jenga here all about my J-O days aboard that ol' rust bucket Valkyrie."

LT Christina Breanne Towers replied, "Brad, you'd have pissed your pants. It was the most..." she trailed off into another hysterical fit of laughter.

"Well, _I_ have some stories of my own..." England tried to make himself sound important. "The Golden Kestrels had plenty of missions I was involved in that made _international_ acclaim!"

Towers' laughter petered out, and the look on Delson's face was one of awkward disinterest as England began his tale of the Kestrels over Egypt. Just then, the small plastic ball hit England in the ear sharply, cutting his story short. England jerked slightly in surprise, turning his head toward the guilty party with a look of indignation on his face. LT Riley Jason Stone tried to stifle his laughter but it sputtered his lips and he ended up making Mannelli join in the laughter too. England puffed up like a bullfrog,

"You just hit me in the ear!"

"Yeah, and your point would be...?" was Stone's reply, spreading his hands.

"I was in the middle of telling a story and you _rudely_ interrupted me in front of a superior ranking officer."

"Don't care."

Stone leaned on the table staring back at England apathetically. The black, 8-point utility cap was placed unceremoniously on the back of his skull, much like a kid would place a baseball cap on their head. The silver rank insignia of a lieutenant was pinned to the front panel, light reflecting off the shiny surface as it moved. Stone's trim frame stood 6-foot-2, packed with dense muscle. His dark brown hair was slightly long and messy for a military officer, framing his low forehead over green eyes that twinkled with merriment. His face was animated with expression, lighting up at the mere mention of an old joke, smiling suspiciously when asked about "covert operations" he may or may not have been involved in, laughing merrily at a funny anecdote, or being strong and serious for a friend in need.

"You _what_?" England asked incredulously.

"Dude, stories are for having fun and sharing experiences. They are not for the purpose of making you look better in anyone's eyes. We don't care if you had a mission with _international_ acclaim," Stone said. "We only care how well you'll do here. Relax, loosen your panties, and tell a funny story. Now, can you give me my ball back, please?"

England fumed silently, flattening the ball under the heel of his boot in spite. Stone shrugged nonchalantly, and served a new ball across the table, beginning once again the incessant plastic _pick, pock _of the ball. England scowled as he sat at the table with the CO and Towers. As soon as he opened his mouth to retell his tale, Towers jumped in like an excited kid.

"Oo! Oo! I have one I just remembered! Sir, you remember the time over Helsinki?"

Mannelli laughed with Stone and Delson as he said, "You mean the time Trip Wire's passenger power-vomited all over the canopy?"

Delson nodded his head, chuckling. The Commander, himself, was a man of average stature with a head of sandy blonde hair and soft brown eyes. He had a slim, unimpressive visage but a grand smile that caused his eyes to squint in merriment. Having been a man of the Navy for over twenty-five years, being married – and consequently divorced – three times. He was married to the Navy, and he considered the Demons his children, rearing them with a stern but fair demeanor. His helmet was adorned with what looked like a strand of barbed wire wrapped several times around in a random fashion. He figured if he had to be Trip Wire, he might as well be a dangerous one as well.

"I was doing a demonstration with the Demons over Helsinki for the Swedish reporters. As a measure of good will, we took their most prominent reporter for a joyride. He was a super nice guy, a real gentleman, thanking us the whole way to the ramp for the opportunity to do this.

"The demo we did was a collection of our more dangerous air-to-air maneuvers we use to disengage the enemy so we can get the leg up on them. Well, we had finished pulling Jenga's favorite – the Tumbler –"

"- gotta love it! Each plane has a bogey on their six – " she got cut off.

"-stealing my thunder, Jenga?"

"Sorry, sir. I just _love_ explaining the Tumbler every chance I get; it's like the joy of ice cream to a little kid to me, y'know?"

Delson smiled, "Well, by all means go ahead."

"Thank you, sir!"

She launched into the explanation, her face alight with spirit as she moved her hands like airplanes in dizzying circles around each other. LT Christina Breanne Towers was a gorgeous redheaded girl with deep blue eyes and a stunning visage. In her youth, she was the bad girl who played truant from school in the tough neighborhoods of Orlando, Florida. Lacking motivation to change, she ran away to New York to pursue acting. She often slept in the more charitable churches of the area, where she ran into a master chief who saw potential in her, encouraging her to enlist. She did that, working the decks of the carriers before heading off to officer school and flight training straight after. She had been selected by the Demons at her winging. Towers had her helmet adorned with the toy blocks that she was nicknamed after, the pieces laid out as if in free fall after the tower had gotten knocked over.

"- and that's how you do it!" Towers finished. "Sir, I'm so sorry, go ahead."

"Quite alright, Jenga," Delson smiled. "Anyway, we finished the Tumbler and had formed into the V once more. I asked the guy if he was doing alright, and he replied that he was good to go. But he didn't sound so hot."

"We could all tell that he was two G's away from pissing his pants," Mannelli offered with a smile at the memory. "I mean, he was squeaking like a Swedish mouse in a boiling teapot, for Christ's sake!"

Brian Antonio Mannelli grew up in a Navy family – an Italian family first and foremost – around the banks of the Jersey shore, watching Navy fighters fly in and out of the Lakehurst Naval Air Base in New Jersey. He'd grown up with strong bonds to his nuclear family and followed in his father's footsteps, attending the U.S. Naval Academy. It was there that he broadened his definition and meaning of family. That started with the first roommate (and fellow Plebe) Riley Jason Stone. Mannelli was fiercely loyal to Stone, most especially after an episode with an extremely mean upperclass. Mannelli adorned his helmet with the Italian flag and meatballs with mean looks in their eyes.

Delson continued, "So, I asked what we should do next. The guy said that he wanted to see what we had up our sleeves; 'Surprise me,' he says. I advised against pulling anything more complicated than a formation flight, but Dragon suggests we try weightless flight."

Riley Jason Stone smiled sheepishly. Stone's story begins at the Key West Naval Air Station, where he was born. He'd grown up following his father – also a Demon – all over the world. His father loved him, and would satisfy most anything young Riley asked of him: a game of catch in the backyard, going to the go-cart tracks, paintball, and the like. Stone's mother doted on her son likewise, allowing Riley to know what it meant to have a childhood his parents only dreamed of. Of course, arguments betwixt his parents were common over what he considered trivial things, but he wrote it off to their temperaments. He hid his temper with his optimism and humor, and he found himself to be the nucleus of many social groups as he went through school. Being the great great grandson of a war hero didn't hurt either.

Delson continued, "So I said OK. So here we are, flying in a V, and we pull up sharply, throwing on some more throttle to make things quick. Well, we're reaching the peak of the parabolic flight path, and we go weightless. I hear the guy moaning in the back seat, so I inverted to put him back in the seat; bad idea. He tossed his cookies all over the canopy, and before I realize that I'm doing it, I roll over again to level flight, and I get absolutely drenched by it. Thank God, I was wearing my oxygen mask, otherwise, I would have upchucked myself."

The Demons howled in delight, Stone rolling on the floor with glee as he kicks his legs while holding his belly. Tears were forming at the corners of Towers' eyes, and Mannelli's face was nearly beet red. England found it quite humorous, but never broke composure. Delson was bobbing with laughter, holding his embarrassed face in his hand. England was only slightly amused by the story, so he decided to ascertain the origin of Mannelli's call sign.

"Mr. Mannelli, sir, how did you come across the name Meatball?"

Mannelli looked at England, then at Stone, and asked, "You wanna take this?"

Stone winked, "I got this. Plebe Summer for the Class of 2156 was as brutally hot as it was physically challenging. One trip to the E-Course had been one of the most challenging days Brian here had faced, being that he was quite rotund in his youth, just barely passing the physical minimums to enter the Academy. The E-Course Marine Corps Challenge consisted of the Plebes running in full cammies, with a 60-pound rucksack, a Kevlar helmet, and a rubber SCAR (that is, Squad Combat Assault Rifle). We were running the 2-mile course through the woods and hills, and Bri was panting and falling behind the rest of the squad. Our platoon commander, then Midn 1/c Fryer, was screaming bloody murder at him the whole time.

'_Get your fat ass up that hill, Mannelli! I swear to God, if you don't get up that hill, I'll make your life a living Hell while you're at _my_ Naval Academy, you read me!?_'

"Bri comes back with a weak-ass 'Sir, yes, sir!'—"

"-It was _not_ weak."

"Are you telling the story?"

"No, but—"

"—Well, shut the fuck up and let me tell it, man," Riley smiled.

"So the day was hot, Bri was sweating profusely as he ran the entire course. I was in his squad, and several times I would ignore the threats from Fryer and urge Brian on, running with him. We neared the steepest hill yet, at the finish line. The rest of the squad scaled the orange-brown hill with ease, clinging to the dirty rope tied around the tree at the top and running up. I was the last one up...save for Meatball here. He had nothing left; he could barely stand, his face red and hot with effort, his mouth cotton dry from thirst, and his shirt soaked by sweat, he was on the verge of collapsing when Fryer got in his face again.

"'Get up that hill, fat boy, or so help me, I'll drop you right here and now, and you won't _ever_ get up!'"

"Bri grabs the rope while I watched. He stepped onto the hill, lost his balance and slipped, his face crashing into the hillside. His lip and nose had gotten the full force, splitting open the lip and bloodying the nose. It ran down his face and into his mouth; he was done, I mean, he could barely move.

"So I rappelled down the hill and took his ruck and rifle, slinging the shit around my person and urged Bri on. Fryer sat there in amazement, dumbfounded at the utter _balls_ I as a Plebe had. So he starts laying into me.

"'_Mr. Stone, get up that hill and leave this fat-body alone!'_"

"No, sir!" I stared back, defiant. "I'm not going to sit here and watch my squad mate struggle without help, _sir_."

"He says, 'Mr. Stone, you disobeyed a direct order from a superior midshipman!'"

"I says, 'There's nothing superior about your actions, sir!'"

"Fryer stood there in silence, fuming at an insignificant Plebe. So I help Bri get up the rope, up the hill, and to the end of the course. Ever since then, we've been closer than blood brothers. Fryer was eventually relieved from summer detail because of his brutal hazing tactics, and we plebes had a much more enjoyable summer after that.

"So, in a testament to his heritage – and his past physical appearance – Mannelli adorns his helmet with the Italian flag and meatballs with mean looks in their eyes."

"You suck at story-telling, Riley," Mannelli mumbled.

"Oh shut up, you puss."

"Hey!" Towers called out, her lips pouting in feign hurt. "That offends me, _shipmate._"

Riley turned a darkened expression on Towers, "What…did…_you_…just call _me_?"

Towers drew herself up to her full height in the chair and with a voice that enunciated every syllable, "I called you shipmate, _shitbag!_"

Stone leapt across the room at her, appearing to be fuming mad, but everyone knew he was just playing around; he hated to be called shipmate – which is an "endearing" term between naval personnel. He chased Towers around the room, jumping over the couches as she ran around them; knocking over the things she put in his path to obstruct him; throwing England in the way, though he just got run over by Stone. He finally caught her and sat on her as she tried to laugh through the crushing weight on her chest.

"Say it!" Stone smiled.

"Never!" she managed, still laughing. Her face was turning bright red, making the rarely seen freckles pop out.

"Say it, or my fat ass stays right where it is," Stone countered.

"Alright, alright!" she caved. "I love my Big Bad Stone Daddy!"

"OK, and you're free," Stone stood up, allowing her to breathe once more. As she got to her knees, Stone tapped her lightly on the forehead a few times because she hated it when people touched her there; she batted his hands away. The scene was a normal occurrence…every three months or so.

But now that six months had gone by, there hadn't been a scene like that anymore. Usually, Stone needed coaxing. He rarely watched movies that he liked anymore, scarcely viewed television (but who did with only three channels, all in French?), and seemed hellbent on training in the simulators every chance he got. He was possessed, chasing after a ghost when he flew, and risking more than he dared six months prior. Delson shook his head and got out of the cockpit of his bird.

The Demons exited their respective craft and headed toward the crew ready room for debriefing, as was standard procedure. However, Stone walked briskly ahead of the group to the locker room. He was followed closely by Mannelli, who practically had to run to keep up with him. Stone placed the black 8-point soft cover on his head and the dark-lensed sunglasses over his eyes as he removed his helmet. The single silver bar attached to the front panel of the cover flashed in the bright sunlight as Stone's quick pace bounced the insignia's reflective surface into and out of the sun. His jaw was firmly set in anger, eyes narrowed dangerously underneath threatening eyebrows.

Stone ignored his roommate and wingman as he wrenched the door to the hangar open and headed straight for the locker room. As Mannelli was about to follow behind him, Stone slammed the door shut. He didn't want anyone interfering; he intended to shut that motor mouth of a pilot down once and for all. He almost ended the careers of five others, what would one more do to him? If it took five to get him demoted, then he could live with one more. Besides what would they do to him, strip his wings? _Hell_ no! He was the descendant of a hero, for Pete's sake! No one dared defy him before, and they wouldn't now.

Stone entered the locker room, rushing straight to his locker. Inside, he grabbed a pair of tube socks, stuffing one into the other, and dropped the black No. 8 billiard ball into the socks. Stone twisted the sock's free end around his gloved hand, waiting by the lockers for England to turn the corner. Mannelli finally made it into the locker room before the rest of the Demons and seeing his friend with the weapon in hand, he stopped. Slowly, he stepped out the rest of the distance between his best friend and himself.

"Riley, what the Hell are doing?"

"I'm gonna teach that fucker a lesson," Stone spat.

Just then, the door to the locker room opened and England stepped through the doorway first, arguing with the Demons about how to deal with Stone.

"He's a loose cannon that must be removed if this unit is going to operate as it should! I don't understand why you people don't understand that! He's a _menace!_"

England stepped around the corner, and the rest seemed to unfold in slow motion. Stone swung the weapon from around his back and hit England in the forehead. The other man dropped without warning, a dumbfounded expression written on his face. Stone swung the sock down onto England's nose. Bone shattered inside England's olfactory sensor, blood gushing out of the split opening near what used to be the bridge of his nose. The Demons watched in horror as Stone growled,

"So you wanna talk shit, huh? Try talking through this, you miserable _bastard!_"

He swung the weapon once more into England's mouth, knocking the majority of his teeth out of the gums and into his mouth. Stone tossed the weapon at England's chest, letting the bloody tool sit on his victim's body. England placed his hands protectively over his painful mouth, screaming through his fingers in agony. The Demons looked at Stone in open-mouthed horror, eyes full of disbelief and fear. Stone looked back at them as calm as ever, as though nothing had just happened.

Suddenly, Marines stormed the small locker room, assault rifles shouldered and pointed at Stone. Loud, stern commands of "On your knees!" "Hands up!" were shouted. Stone knew the drill all too well, and dropped docilely to his knees, hands behind his head. All the muzzles were pointed mere millimeters from his face, his eyes flicking from one to the other in wonder.

"Took you guys less time to get here," Stone remarked darkly.

"Remain silent, sir," the sergeant-at-arms said mechanically.

"Easy on the wrists, bub!" Stone said in protest as one of the Marines roughly took Stone's left hand down to the small of his back, cuffing it. He did the same with the right hand, binding the arms behind Stone's body. "I'll need my hands."

Two hospital corpsmen rushed to England's side. England's face was a bloody pulp, and his teeth littered the floor. They did the best they could to clean him up, but that's all Stone saw as the Marines lifted him to his feet and marched out of the locker room. They led him straight to the Admiral's office, where the sergeant-at-arms knocked twice loudly, followed by a reply of "Enter."

Stone was shoved through the opened doorway, the pilot temporarily lost his balance. Admiral Shorte turned to face Stone; flecks of blood littered Stone's face like horrible Halloween make-up, and Stone didn't seem to care. A look of satisfaction crossed the pilot's eyes, but his face was as calm as the breeze outside. Shorte dropped his glance,

"Leave us," the admiral gave leave to the Marines, whom started on their way out. "And uncuff him! He won't pull anything else today."

The sergeant-at-arms looked hesitant, but the Admiral nodded him on. The Marine cut the plastic cuffs off, leaving Stone a little reminder by roughly removing the rings, an angry red mark across his wrists. Stone rubbed the spots automatically as the Admiral faced him with a sad, solemn look.

"Sit down, lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

The Admiral folded his hands atop his desk, sighing lightly before continuing, "Riley, what happened today, son?"

"Sir, we were flying the mission profile as was briefed: low and fast. We were simulating flat-hatting underneath enemy radar over the treetops when Lieutenant England broke formation, coming danger close to my position. I took the initiative to move out of the way to avoid a mid-air collision. Hence, _I_ had to break formation. He called out over the net, saying that I was a pussy, and that I had no faith in my fellow pilots. Sir, you know me, and I had to fight back. I basically started ranting over the net-"

"-and threatened to shoot him down with your guns?" the Admiral cut him off. "It's right here in the transcript, and your flight data shows you armed your guns." Stone didn't say a word or moved, waiting for the Admiral to say something else. "Continue."

"So, I armed my guns and threatened to shoot. The entire squadron told me to chill out, trying to get me to calm down and ignore his tired bullshit. Sir, if it wasn't for them, I don't know if today would have happened to be a good day in the Navy."

"Is this the point where you fired a practice bomb?" the Admiral ignored the last statement. "And did it fly through the window of a mansion?"

"Not quite yet, sir," Stone held up his pointed fingers. "We got back into formation, reconducted the simulation, and were on approach to our target area. We all tried to bank together in formation, but England's plane wasn't banking at the same rate, almost crashing into me again. So, I pulled my stick hard back, laying on the burners, when my thumb depressed the weapon switch. Since I had already armed my guns, the selector knob got knocked by my hand into bombs and the fucker just flew off my wing.

"When I realized what had happened, I saw the roof of the mansion cave in when I looked below. I was so angry, sir, I couldn't see straight. Meatball – that is, Lieutenant Mannelli, sir – got in front of me right before I fired on Lieutenant England. Commander called it off, and we flew back. I didn't say a single word, sir."

Shorte looked at him with sad eyes as he spoke, "Why?"

"Why what, sir?"

"Why did you turn so violent? What happened six months ago that changed you so much? You had so much _potential!_ And now you're the biggest problem I've had since Lord knows when. You were up-and-coming; a true fighter pilot. What happened?"

It was Stone's turn to look sad now. He hung his head and turned away slightly as he meekly uttered, "I don't want to talk about it."

"I just want to understand," the Admiral said pleadingly, almost obsessively. "I want to help you, but I can't if I don't know the problem."

Stone looked up with steely resolve, his eyes watering, "It's not something I want to relive, _sir_."

They stared at one another until the Admiral acknowledged a beep on his computer, looking over the report that flashed onto the screen. He grunted, almost thankfully, for the news was good news. He turned to Stone, taking a breath,

"It seems Mr. England will be fine once the surgery is complete. Nothing will be amiss with his teeth once they are reconstructed and replaced."

"He better not mouth off again, or I'll kill him," Stone answered darkly.

"_However_," the Admiral continued over Stone. "This is the sixth incident in six months, which means there has to be some action taken." Stone almost scoffed before the Admiral said, "Riley, you need to control your temper."

Stone chuckled dismissively, "What is it this time? Restriction? Extra duty? Work detail with the enlisted? Scrubbing heads? Hit me, sir, I'm ready."

Shorte looked almost downtrodden at hearing this mockery of the conduct punishments he'd handed down the chain to one of his own pilots. None of it had worked, apparently, and none of it would suffice now. There was no other alternative...

"You're under house arrest rules until further notice. You will have an escort waiting outside your hatch, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You are not to go anywhere but your stateroom, the head, and the wardroom unsupervised. You will be allowed to conduct your personal workouts as you see fit and attend the briefs, but you will be under heavy surveillance. Do I make myself clear?"

Stone tried not to smile, "Yes, sir."

"And one final thing..." _Here it comes_. "You are hereby suspended from fly-"

Stone leaped out of his chair, "_Suspended form flight status!? Are you serious!? You can't take my wings, you _CAN'T!!"

Shorte rose menacingly, "You seem to forget your place, _lieutenant junior grade!_" Stone opened his mouth in silent protest; the look on his face was one of shock and disappointment. "I can do whatever I deem necessary to run this command effectively! If that means striping the wings off a rogue pilot in _my_ squadron, then so be it! But don't you _dare_ tell _me_ what I can and cannot _DO!!_ Do I make myself clear, son?"

Riley set his jaw angrily, nodding his head because he was too furious to answer. Shorte dismissed him; Stone came to attention, turned on his heel and stormed out of the office. He pounded back to his stateroom, the Marine escort for that watch trailing close behind. Stone's face was set into a furious scowl, _how could he?_ The miserable old man had finally grown some balls and done what had never been done to anyone in his family before; stripped him of his privilege to fly. He burst into the stateroom, slamming the door behind him as he drew a deep, sharp breath.

"**_FUUUCK!!_**"


	4. Decisions, Decisions

He threw his head back, sliding down the door, hands on his head

_Author's Note: OK, OK, I know this chapter is lame, given that I have not updated in SO long. However, I'm an Aerospace Engineering major (aka I have no life outside school). Any time outside of class, I'd rather just not do anything. But, I decided that it was time to put this out. Sorry, no Belle in this chapter…well, kinda. I can't make any promises, but I'll try to pump out the next one faster._

He threw his head back, sliding down the door, hands on his head. _How could he?_ Leaning forward against his legs, he hung his head in defeat…and shame. He had finally done it; he had succeeded in bringing his family name – which until now had been a respected and revered one – to absolute and utter shame. He was the descendant of one of the world's greatest war heroes, but not one worthy of the family name.

Brian looked up from his book at Riley's initial outburst upon entering the room, and concern crossed his face as he saw his friend crumple at the foot of the door. He tossed the book on the desk and knelt by Riley's side.

"How'd it go?"

Riley looked up with sad, heavy eyes as he explained what the Admiral told him, and outlined the punishments. Brian looked on with genuine concern, but didn't get upset for Riley; deep down he knew it was coming sooner or later. Brian sighed as Riley finished, taking his friend's head in his hand and rubbing his hair.

"Could be worse, hombre," Brian said as he rose to his desk. "They could have kicked you out permanently, never let you fly again – for the Navy or _anyone_ else—"

"Sure, they put a flag on every résumé I send out to any job application," Riley interjected. "Shit man, I might as well just be a bum and live my life in poverty."

Riley picked himself up off the floor, placing his custom helmet on the desk before undressing to go shower. "Why do you do it, man?" Brian quipped out of the blue.

Riley answered him over the hiss of the shower, "Because I don't stand for people disrespecting me, my family, or my friends. Besides, I'm not gonna let that son of a bitch England get me riled up without a little something to return his favor."

"That's not what I meant, Ri."

Riley pretended he didn't hear that over the slap of the water on the shower floor, dripping off his body. But he also knew that he couldn't lie to someone he considered a close friend, closer even than a brother. He sighed, and turned the water off. Brian waited patiently.

Riley stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his wet form. Setting his face into a grim expression, he began to say a short sentence:

"Because I feel guilty."

"Guilty about what?"

Riley opened his mouth to explain, but stopped himself. He shook his head and sighed, padding over to his wall locker and picking out a fresh set of Navy basketball shorts and an old Naval Academy Underground t-shirt that read "Damn it feels good to be a Youngster!". He flopped on his rack and sighed heavily before he asked his question of Brian,

"Do you remember that village we air raided six months ago? The one where I was an FO?" Brian shifted in his chair to look at Riley, nodding. "Do you remember what happened?"

Brian shook his head, "Nah dude, I was too busy fighting off the fighters above it, why?"

Riley closed his eyes, "No reason..." He lifted himself off the bed, donning a pair of shoes. "I'm going to grab a snack from the wardroom, you want something?"

Brian shook his head, to which Riley replied, "Suit yourself."

Outside his hatch, Riley saw the Marine sentry standing at parade rest shift slightly. He took one look at the statuesque Marine, sighed through his nose,

"You coming?"

"Yes, sir," stepping out of parade rest to fall in two paces behind Riley. "Where are you going, sir?"

"Stop calling me that, I'm your prisoner now," Riley huffed. "And what does it matter where I'm going, you're following so you'll find out. What, you fill out a log of where I go now? What if I take a leak in the middle of the night, you gonna come in and shake me dry, standing watch over me like a suicide patient?"

The Marine grinned slightly, "If need be, sir."

Riley looked back at his jailer, a dark smile crossing his lips, "Smartass."

-_Back in the Admiral's office-_

"I swear, that kid is going to unravel the entire war effort if he keeps it up," Gates grumbled as he shut the hatch to Shorte's office. "You know what they would have done to us if we were that insubordinate?"

"Dare I take a guess what the Marines would have done?" Shorte sighed. He was tired of hearing the same old Marine-Corps-is-more-taxing-than-anything mantra, especially from Gates.

"Pool training. Gave us a five-gallon jug full of water as we tried treading water with it above our heads. If we didn't struggle enough, then they would spray us with a hose until we almost drowned. I hated it," Gates grimaced at the memory.

"I thought you were a model Marine, Gates," Shorte fired back.

Gates smirked, "Don't get cocky. So, what happened to the wayward Demon son? Did you finally have enough balls to kick him out?"

"No."

"What?" Gates leaned forward threateningly.

"He's a Demon," Shorte reminded. "He's a finely-tuned weapon of war." Gates started to turn red from rage. "There's been too much time and money put into this kid to just let him go, so I just took him off flight status indefinitely."

Gates puffed like a bullfrog, seething uncontrollably until he just blew up, "Have you _LOST IT!?_ He's caused this base and our mission more trouble than he's worth! You should have shipped him out at the _first_ infraction! And you – you – you _retain_ him? You're not worth the stars on your--"

"Now you just hold on one second!" Shorte yelled back. "I don't care what you think I _should _have done, or – or what you would have had you been in my shoes. But don't you _EVER_ attack my character! You're not an aviator, so I don't expect you to understand what it means to be stripped of your wings, but allow me to illuminate!

"It's like being told you're not going out on patrol anymore; you don't have command of a company, a platoon, a squad, nothing! You're given a desk and a great big smack in the face! Not having one's wings is like you not having your rifle; you cease to have a meaning or purpose in your warfare community. I know this kid, I knew his family well, and I know that this angst he's feeling has a deeper root, but it can be ameliorated.

"Until such time as you have a complete understanding of what goes on around here," Shorte glared, "don't you _dare_ tell me how to run my goddamn unit. Are we clear?"

Gates was taken aback; he'd never seen Shorte so intense in all the time he'd known him. The reply was short, "Absolutely."

"Good," Shorte settled into his large chair once more. "Now, is there anything else you wanted to bring up while you are here?"

Gates swung his head from side to side slowly, eyes not leaving the still crimson face of his colleague. With that, Gates sidled idly from the room. Outside, he beckoned to his staff to follow him. They followed the general out, wondering silently how their superior could possibly be so calm after the screaming match they'd heard.

-_Two hours later-_

Two smart knocks startled Shorte from his reverie, "Enter."

Riley propped the door open and stepped in the office wearing his best set of ironed black battle dress fatigues. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, come in Riley. Please have a seat if you wish," Shorte replied curtly as he shuffled the documents into a neat stack, placing them in his secure desk drawer, save for one thin file. Riley solemnly approached within three paces of Shorte's desk and took the chair. Shorte wasted no time.

"Lieutenant Junior Grade Stone," Shorte sighed heavily. "How does it feel to be watched every second of every day?" Stone said nothing, instead staring intently into Shorte's eyes. The silence between the two men hung heavy with tension. Stone sighed.

"Sir, you could have made fun of me over the comm system in my room," Stone pointed out dejectedly. "With all due respect, why do you feel it necessary to have that jarhead guard drag me out of my rack to be berated?"

"For two reasons: you shouldn't be sleeping just because you're being punished; Christ, Riley, you've only been on restriction for three hours."

"Sir, sleep is the best meditation," Riley offered with a sly grin.

"Hmph," Shorte replied. "Well, more importantly, I have you here because this way I know you'll be listening to me," Shorte grinned as he rose and approached Stone.

"Riley, I have an assignment for you, and if you choose to accept it, I'll be inclined to relax your restrictions somewhat. Now if you continue act like a two-year-old and pout about it, we'll continue to treat you as such. But it took me a lot of doing to convince Gates you were worthy of redemption, so don't let him prove me wrong.

"Your choice is this: either you can be a child and act immature, having your every step and move watched twenty-four/seven," Shorte settled onto the corner of his desk, sliding the file toward Stone, "or you can be an adult and help us out with this assignment, get outside, breathe some fresh air, get in touch with the locals and make friends. What'll it be?"

Riley eyed the file disdainfully, internally wanting to shove the file back in the admiral's face out of sheer defiance. But some part of the admiral's admonishment rang out in Riley's mind, and decided that being an adult was better than being a child. Riley closed his eyes, shook his head, and took the file. He leafed through it, scanning the documents outlining basic background reconnaissance on the local villagers, proper initiation procedures, certain target objectives for initiation (various reasons listed as to why they were to be contacted), and so forth. He stopped for a brief moment on the picture of Belle. The depth-enhanced photography of the times did a lot of justice to her beautiful visage, bringing out the nuances of her expression. He continued on, trying to look disinterested, but the hook had already been set in his mind. After a few more pages, he closed the file.

"Alright, sir, you got it. But don't I need to be looked after? I will be armed," Stone said.

Shorte replied with a grin, "We'll trust you."

Down in the armory, Stone approached the Marine behind the weapons locker counter, the orders in his hand. He knew that if he didn't have the proper paperwork, there would be no way he would ever see a weapon. The surly gunnery sergeant looked up at the incoming officer, disdain crossing his expression immediately.

_Great, now I gotta deal with his shit._

"Top o' the mornin', gunny," Stone said dryly.

"Something I can do for you?" the gunny said. "Sir?"

"I need an assault rifle, a sidearm, and a load of ammo to go with 'em," Stone replied, placing the orders neatly on the counter.

The gunny glossed over the orders, seeing the admiral's signature, and retreating into the depths of the dark weapons locker.

The locker itself was about the size of a small warehouse, with racks of thousands of small arms, rockets, shoulder-fired missiles, sniper rifles, and several magazines with ammunition. It was a gun slinger's dream. But not so much for Stone. The gunny picked the most ancient weapons left in the locker: a SOPMOD M4, a beat-up Glock Model 25, and the sufficient ammo.

The gunny came back with the weapons and placed them on the counter, checking that each operated well before reluctantly handing them over.

"If you try anything fishy, _sir_," the gunny stared daggers at Stone, "I'll hunt you down."

Stone took possession of the weapons before he could reply back. He slung the weapons about his person as his gaze remain locked on the gunny's; if one didn't know any better, they'd think a Mexican stand-off was in progress. With a last smirk for a retort, the officer left the surly gunny alone.

_I can't fucking believe they gave that trash authorization for my weapons._


End file.
